A Tale Of Two Letters
by Hyphen
Summary: Two letters written by Sirius, twenty years apart.


This fic was inspired by parts of Books 3 and 4. All of the characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and, if people enjoy reading it, I'd like to be paid not in money but in _reviews_.   
  
  
A TALE OF TWO LETTERS,  
An epistolary fic.  
  
  
  
Dear Moony, Wormtail and Prongs,  
  
  
I am writing just the one letter because there's only so much bark (hah, _bark_) I can pull off this tree, and it's taken me weeks to train just the one parrot.  
  
Besides, It'll make it easier for me to keep track of all the lies I write if I write them down only once...  
  
My tropical vacation is just _great_. My days are divided between lazing on a golden beach sipping at exotic rum drinks delivered by attentive monkeys (they put little umbrellas in them, made out of flower petals), and having amazing adventures together with my parents, who have turned out to be the greatest pals a boy could have. The last escapade involved saving the island chief's daughter from certain death in a flaming volcano. Truly, she is the most beautiful girl I have even seen, with dusky skin, large black eyes, and amazingly flexible joints.  
  
Oh, enough of that. I am making myself sick with all my fabrications. You oh so virtuous ones be glad to know I have decided against lying. I will now tell it like it is: my parents are insane, and this whole tropical getaway thing is less exciting than a double helping of History of Magic. You know how we were supposed to "get away from it all"? Well, we have. We've gotten away from all that makes life worth living! We live a life of deprivation in a Muggle tent, cooking food the Muggle way and with nothing to entertain us except a pile of Muggle books. (These were OK at first but have started disintegrating now because of the weather and so don't even make good anti-monkey projectiles anymore.)  
  
Wait a moment, did I say entertain _us_? I meant only myself. The parental units have plenty to entertain _them_, as they spend their days deep inland searching for the Mythical Golden Temple of the Volcano God. They won't let me go with them, as it's (I wish I could mimic their prissy voices in a letter) "too dangerous." Oh, I did try to follow them, naturally, but I was bitten by a snake (yes, those Slytherins are a problem out here, too) and then spent several hours trapped inside some kind of man-eating plant.   
  
I eventually chewed my way out, of course, but it would have been much easier to escape if I had had my wand, and wasn't it very neglectful of my parents to take it away when they _must_ have known I would go into the jungle? Here is how they justify themselves: (James, you do the voices, I know you've nearly got them down) Dad says it's "against the school rules to use magic" and Mom says that "Sirius had better learn to live like his explorer ancestors." She is crazy of course, as they are all dead. Except perhaps for Great Cousin Oates: nobody's ever seen his body. Anyway, we all know that the real reason is that they don't want me spoiling their fun.  
  
But I am getting rather whiny... I suppose that one good thing is that I am getting slightly better at wandless magic. It's not all that satisfying though, kind of like trying to create a good stink _without_ a stink bomb (if you're _not_ Goyle, that is.) I try to find other positives, too, and generally amuse myself, but, as there are absolutely no dusky maidens, and no natives at all, except for the monkeys, it's a bit hopeless really. The monkeys, incidentally, are completely untrainable. It's also very hard to make your own rum (unless real rum is _meant_ to taste like gasoline), and the flowers I made the umbrellas with were poisonous and made me come out in blue spots all over. I'm sending some along: I'm sure you guys will find a use for them.   
  
I _have_ tried to find other interesting flora and fungi, but, whenever I venture into the jungle, this enormous parrot (who looks a lot like Snape, especially the beak) starts following me around. It laughs whenever I trip over a snake I thought was a root or get stuck in a swamp. I will be killing that parrot someday, mark my words; I wish I could roast eat it, but it's probably poisonous. Even the butterflies here are sort of poisonous... The day I accidentally licked one I spent several hours thinking I was the Sorting Hat.  
  
Damn, how I wish I could catch the parrot! It would help if I could transform, but I don't want my parents to find out about all that. I do believe they occasionally look in on me. Otherwise, why would I keep suddenly waking up in the tent half the time when I get into _real_ trouble in the jungle? It's pretty humiliating, actually, I must admit.  
  
How are _your_ summer holidays going, anyway? I'll bet you 50 Galleons they're better than mine. Please take pity and send something. Anything you can spare: bombs, books on monkey hypnotism and exotic botany, parrot traps, and especially a wand, if you can. Hell, send me this summer's homework: at least that way I won't have spend my whole trip on the Express scribbling madly, as usual. I might even learn something.  
  
I have to go now: the parrot is getting very impatient, and he's trying to annoy me by singing the Chicken song. If this letter is full of mistakes, and they bother you, feel free to collect them, Remus. I'd say I wish you were all here, but after all I've written I don't want to give Peter nightmares.  
  
  
yours siriously, Sirius.  
  
  
PS. Some good news: I have grown quite a lot and I must say my torso looks muscular and sexy. James, I will kick your ass when we meet again.  
  
  
  
  
  
_The reader smiled to himself as he finished this well-worn letter. He dropped it onto the table, where it curled up into a roll, swishing against the rough wood. For a moment he just sat there, smiling, lost in his memories...  
But then the smile faded slightly, and the shadows under his eyes darkened. He picked up __another_ rolled-up strip of bark, this one clearly new, but written in a much more shaky hand. With a sigh, he unrolled it, and started to read it again.  
  
  
  
  
  
Dear "Professor" Moony,  
  
  
Doesn't the bark this is written on remind you of something? What about the parrot? You can probably guess where I am. This tropical paradise has changed quite a bit, though. I thought I'd be safely isolated from all human contact, but instead I'm safely lost in the bustle of a tasteless tourist trap. Not a whisper of another witch or wizard for miles. I'll lie low until the heat dies down, as they say in old books and movies. And then...  
  
And then, well, I'm sure you can guess what my plans are. Pettigrew and Snape, the traitor and the enemy: I hope to see each of them again. Just for the one final time. Leaving aside the rat for now, the rat's future fate is obvious, I have to say that I have never hated Snape more than when I heard he'd forced your resignation. But then again, I suppose it's been a while since I hated him less. One might say my feelings for him have reached the peak of emotional possibility, probably around the time when he tried to offer us both a dementor's kiss... And to think that I had almost forgotten about him during my little vacation in Azkaban, you know, except of course for the moments when I wished him there with me.  
  
Or, rather, instead of me.  
  
But onto brighter and warmer topics. I thought you, with your ever-enquiring mind, might be interested to know what I've found out on the subject of How To Hide Among Muggles On A Tropical Island. I am not sure how useful this will be to you - I know you prefer gloomier spots in the Carpathians, although you must know you are more than welcome to join me here anytime.  
  
So, here are the rules of Hiding Among Muggles On A Tropical Island.  
  
The first rule is the most important: you must tell everybody that you are an American tourist. I'm told by the natives that this explains almost any bizzare behaviour, from pouring out red wine on top of spilt salt to referring to hamburgers as "ethnic cooking" just because they have a slice of pineapple in them.  
  
The accent, incidentally, is easy to achieve, using a simple and well-wearing Voice Modification spell. (It is important to pick a neutral form of the accent for reasons that will be obvious later.) Alas, an accent is not enough. There is also the question of vocabulary. I have not been able to sort this one out, exactly, but I would like to note that telling an attractive woman that she'd look great in suspenders results in her giving you a very odd look. If I were more mischievous, or liked you less, I would also tell you that the best was to establish your character among Americans is to lose your eraser and then wander around asking people if they have a rubber you could borrow.  
  
All this confusion brings me to the second rule: pretend to be an actor, and whenever anyone questions your speech or behaviour, tell them you are trying to get into character for an upcoming role. When done convincingly, this part is rather a lot of fun, although I suspect you wouldn't enjoy the limelight quite as much as I do. The women love it, you see, and several even claim to have seen me in a movie or on the stage ('the jewel thief movie' and Hamlet are popular choices), and I am forever giving out my autograph.   
  
And now for the clever part: you may find that some people are still suspicious, in spite of your excellent actor cover story. Husbands and fathers often have this disturbing habit. In these situations, you may be forced to explain your behaviour further; you may even be forced to make a quick getaway. The third rule is this: when faced with an annoying American, find out where they are from. Most are either from "New York" or "Los Angeles", the ones from other places are usually harmless. Once you know where the American is from, remember: you are from the _other_ place. And the key is this:  
  
If you decide you are from Los Angeles, you are a movie actor. When you find yourself in an embarrassing situation, quickly explain that it's all the drugs. Then, excuse yourself to go call your agent.  
  
If you're a New Yorker, you are a star of the stage. Under similar circumstances, twitch nervously and say that it's all the medications your "shrink" has you on - and then, run off to call the "shrink." (A "shrink" is a mind-healing wizard, or a paid friend, depending on whom you ask.)  
  
I assure you, the above three steps are absolutely foolproof, and I am having much more fun here than I was twenty years ago. The sun is just wonderful: there are rarely any creepy shadows, the closest thing we get is cool, welcoming shade. I do get a little bit overexcited when I think about the traitor and how I let him go (I do not blame you, but I do not think that we should have let Harry decide. James, like yourself, was always too forgiving. I am now sure _I_ was right to feel otherwise: if I'd had my way, neither of the two men who have blighted both our lives would be alive today.)  
  
But enough of this: tomorrow is another day, and I do enjoy thinking about what I'll do to those two when I finally catch them... Do tell me if you want me to send you a list of my best ideas.  
  
Now, let's talk about Harry. If you see him, you can tell Harry that Buckbeak is fine, too, if a bit overheated. He's got plenty of good things to eat: those Snape-shaped laughing parrots are his favourite. Not poisonous, after all, apparently. I do hope you'll be able to see him: if that misdirection spell Dumbledore placed on his house baffles you, perhaps you could talk to our esteemed Headmaster about lifting it for you the way he did for me. I need all the help I can get in this whole Godfathering business, and I must say that telling me to send him that signed permission form was a stroke of genius on your part. Now, adviceless, I am stuck and have no idea how to handle the situation. I read and re-read his letters and then take hours to answer. (That's when I run around and make an idiot of myself by asking for rubbers, in case you were wondering.) And my replies bore even me to tears: but I can't well joke stupidly with a boy I feel responsible for, can I? I know I always told James I'd try to lead his son astray, but when he has no-one to help him back onto the right path it's an entirely different story, I find.  
  
Oh, It's all so difficult, and I must say I respect the way you weaseled out of it thirteen years ago using the doubtful excuse of being a werewolf. You've always been smarter than you look, I suppose.  
  
Must go now: Ladies' night is starting at the Tiki room, and I find that getting drunk and going to bed at dawn both help to keep my dreams manageable. Siriously wish you were here.  
  
Arooooo,  
Sirius.  
  
PS. One more thing: I wanted to apologize for any injuries I might have given you during our last canine battle... oh, OK, I admit it, I want you to apologize for the injuries you gave _me_. You kicked my ass fair and square: you must have learnt quite a bit in Albania.  
I'm still puzzled by something, though: how come you transformed only when the clouds cleared? The moon had been up since sunset!  
  
  
  
  



End file.
